by Emily Organ
“Yes, he worked for the Indian government in Ghazipur.”
The mention of India aroused my interest.
“What did he do there?”
“He was an opium agent.”
“And when did he return to England?”
“It was in the summer of last year.”
“And he found no regular employment on his return?”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you know why that was?”
“It’s because he was unreliable. He took up a few jobs, but no employment after that first one lasted for long.”
“Was the cause of this unreliability his regular opium habit?”
“I fear that it was, yes.”
“How long was your brother in India?”
“Five years.”
“And what did he do before he found work there?”
“He studied at Cambridge.”
“He was an intelligent and capable young gentleman, no doubt,” commented the coroner, slowly shaking his head as if saddened by the disappointing demise of someone who had shown such early promise.
“He was,” said Miss Holland. “He was clever and kind, and I adored him. I wish that my brother had never encountered opium. It was the ruin of him.”
“Have you any idea who might wish to harm your brother?” asked the coroner.
“No, none.” Miss Holland dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Did he mention that he had been in any trouble with anyone? Perhaps there had been an argument. Or perhaps he owed someone money.”
“If he did I never knew of it,” she said sadly.
Inspector Henry Reeves of K Division described the bloody scene as he had found it, and then the police surgeon described Mr Holland’s injuries in detail. Miss Holland stepped out of the room during his deposition.
The inquest eventually reached its conclusion. The coroner stated that Mr Holland had been barbarously murdered in cold blood and the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.
Chapter 13
After the inquest I found Inspector Reeves outside the mortuary smoking a pipe. He was a slight man with wide-set green eyes and a black moustache. He acknowledged me with a nod as I introduced myself.
“You have a puzzling murder case to solve,” I said. “How is the investigation progressing?”
He removed the pipe from his mouth. “There’s no doubt the killing was the result of some feud. Mr Holland was deliberately set upon, as we heard in there.”
“But your witnesses are not very reliable.”
“They’re not; however, we do have a few witnesses who saw the gunman before and after the attack, so we’ve put together a reasonably good description of the man.”
“Which is what?”
“A young man in dark clothing with no obvious distinguishing features. Made no attempt to speak to anyone either before or after the event. Remarkably calm and unflustered. I’d say he was a hired assassin.”
“That could make him rather difficult to track down.”
“We have our methods.” Inspector Reeves gave a conspiratorial smile and popped his pipe back in his mouth.
“Tom Clifford, Holborn Gazette!” came a voice from behind me. I sighed. “You caught the killer yet, Reeves?”
Inspector Reeves gave Tom a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”
“I’m guessing no, or you’d ’ave said otherwise at the inquest.”
“Your guess is correct.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not yet.”
“Any idea why they went after Mr Holland?”
“None so far, though as I’ve just explained to your colleague here we believe the gunman was a hired assassin.”
“Oh, she ain’t my colleague.”
“That’s not a particularly polite way to speak about the young lady.”
“I’m used to it, Inspector Reeves,” I said.
“That makes it even worse! No lady should have to become accustomed to rudeness. You must apologise, Mr Clifford.”
Tom stared at the inspector and then at me.
“But she’s used to it,” he said.
“If you desire my co-operation, Mr Clifford, you will apologise,” said the inspector.
I felt a smile appear on my face.
“Apologies, Miss Green,” said Tom, “it’s just that we’ve ’ad our differences over the years.”
“Of course you have,” replied the inspector. “That’s what happens when you work for rival newspapers. Now, how about I give you both a story your editors will thank you for?”
Tom nodded eagerly.
The inspector lowered his voice. “How would you like to visit an opium den? Every reporter worth his or her salt visits an opium den in the course of their career. Charles Dickens did just that.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” I asked.
The inspector gave a hollow laugh. “Not with me it isn’t. You’ll be in safe hands, and they know me well down there. I have to do the rounds every so often, and now and again I take a few reporters with me. If you’re interested there would be a moderate fee to cover my time and expenses.”
“How much?” asked Tom.
“Three shillings.”
“All right. When then?”
“How about Thursday?”
“I’ll come too,” I said. I couldn’t bear the thought of The Holborn Gazette carrying a story about an opium den and the Morning Express missing out.
“Good,” replied Inspector Reeves. “Both of you it is, then. I shall meet you by the Chinese laundry just a little further up the road on Thursday at nine o’clock.” He pointed to his right.
“What’s the name of this road?” asked Tom.
“Commercial Road. The laundry’s opposite the soda factory, you can’t miss it. Bring payment with you.”
Inspector Reeves bid us a good day and walked away.
“Do you think he’s a bit shifty?” I asked Tom.
“Enterprising’s what I’d call ’im.”
There seemed little use in reading through the notes Mr Edwards had made for me about the Forsters and Mr Mawson. With Edgar working on the story there was no need for me to devote any attention to them, but as Mr Edwards had spent so much time on the research I felt obliged to read what he had written. And having initially worked on the piece I still had a keen interest in the case.
I sat at my writing desk that evening and read through Mr Edwards’ notes. Tiger spent a few minutes on my lap before jumping out of the window to stalk a pigeon on the rooftops. The sun began to set and a train hooted as it pulled out of nearby Moorgate station.
Mr Edwards was always thorough in his work and had been able to find the Forsters and Mr Mawson on the departing passenger lists. He had also written down every mention of Sheridan and Company, the merchant Mr Forster had worked for.
A record for Mr Mawson in late August 1883 caught my eye:
INDIA OFFICE. ARRIVALS REPORTED IN LONDON: Mr C. G. D. Mawson.
I smiled as I read this. Surely the India Office was where I would find the mysterious Mr Mawson.
Chapter 14
The India Office formed part of the imposing government buildings in Charles Street, Whitehall, and was only one street away from the prime minister’s residence in Downing Street.
I walked through an archway beneath the grand stone facade and entered a quadrangle bordered by arched windows and columns. I turned left and made my way across the gravelled courtyard until I reached the door marked ‘India Office’. I had worn my smartest jacket, skirt and hat, adopting an air of self-importance as I entered the building.
“I have an appointment with Mr Charles Mawson,” I announced to the uniformed man in the hallway. I pretended to be unmoved by the splendour of my surroundings: the marble columns, the elaborately carved stone, the intricately tiled floor and the shimmering highlights of gold wherever my eyes cared to rest.
I gave the man my card a
s I introduced myself. It was swiftly handed to another man in livery, who placed it on a salver and carried it away.
Then I waited and prayed that Mr Mawson would play along with my ruse.
It seemed that he had, as a few minutes later the liveried man returned with Mr Mawson in tow. He was as I remembered, with bushy brown whiskers and watery grey eyes. A smile spread across his face as he approached me.
“Miss Green, the reporter! What brings you here?”
“We arranged an appointment, did we not?”
“Did we?”
“Yes,” I replied through a clenched grin.
“Oh yes, I remember now,” he replied unconvincingly. I felt relieved that he appeared happy to keep up the pretence.
“Is there a convenient place we could talk?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “Just follow me.”
We left the entrance hall and stepped into a long corridor with oak wainscoting and ornate arches at regular intervals for as far as the eye could see.
“How did you find me here?” he asked.
“Through a listing in The Homeward Mail.”
“Clever,” he replied with a smile. “I don’t think a lady has ever gone to so much trouble to seek me out before.”
“After our conversation outside the Forsters’ home I wished to find you and express my condolences for the sad death of your friend, Mr Forster,” I said.
He stopped and looked at me. “That’s terribly kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Green. It’s been a huge blow, it really has. I cannot make head nor tail of it.”
“When we last spoke you were trying to find him. Did you succeed before his tragic death?”
“I did. I found out that he was residing at the East India, which I should have guessed, anyhow. We spent a pleasant evening together the night before he died.”
“Pleasant? Even though his wife had just been murdered?”
“I chose my words unwisely, Miss Green, I do apologise. The chap had been through the most appalling time and it was the first opportunity he had found to enjoy some whisky and a chat with a friend. I shan’t pretend that it was easy, but it was convivial. The fellow was in need of some light conversation; a brief respite from the darkness into which he had been plunged. I don’t understand why such a pleasant, friendly couple should have had their lives taken from them in such a dreadful way. Mrs Forster was a delightful lady, the daughter of a tailor. Her family were Somerset folk and she never lost the slight burr in her accent no matter how hard she tried to conceal it.”
We reached an ornate door.
“Have you ever seen the inner courtyard before, Miss Green?”
“No, this is the first time I have ever been here.”
Mr Mawson pushed it open and we stepped out onto a flight of steps that led down to an expansive marble floor. A glass roof stretched high above our heads, and surrounding us were three storeys of elegant arches, columns and balustrades.
“The Sultan of Turkey was received here in 1867,” said Mr Mawson. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.”
“Mrs Forster was instrumental in organising the walks and picnics in India, and colossal picnics they were too!” continued Mawson. “She would have her servants working for an entire day to prepare the food, and then they would have to carry it all, of course. Mr Forster and I dined at the club each Wednesday evening, and we’d go out shooting partridge on a Saturday afternoon. He was an accomplished whist player and a good dancer. There was at least one dance a week in those days.”
“It seems you and the Forsters were kept quite busy out there.”
“Oh, we were, and the lawn tennis tournaments were also enjoyable. I don’t consider myself much of a player, but I did manage third place once.”
Mr Mawson seemed keen to impress upon me the lifestyle he had enjoyed in India, but he had told me little about himself. I wondered whether his achievements were, like his tennis ability, rather mediocre.
We walked across the highly polished floor toward a flight of steps at the far end of the courtyard.
“What did you do in Bengal, Mr Mawson?” I asked.
“I worked for the Indian government in various capacities; most of them administrative and extremely dull, I’m afraid. I spent time at a few locations in Bengal and some in Calcutta itself. The work didn’t hold much interest for me, but the social life, as you have heard, more than made up for it.”
He paused to look up at the roof. “This courtyard takes my breath away every time I walk through it. Does it have the same effect on you, Miss Green?”
“There’s no doubt that it’s an extremely impressive sight, Mr Mawson.”
I thought of the wealth that must have been required to build such a beautiful place, and the eight million pounds of opium revenue came to mind. I was astonished that the British government made so much money from the trade. Then my thoughts shifted to the death of Alfred Holland at a miserable opium den in Limehouse.
Somehow it all seemed to be part of the same intricate web.
“Have you ever come across a man named Alfred Holland?” I asked Mr Mawson as we ascended the steps.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“I attended the inquest into his death yesterday. He was shot dead at an opium den in Limehouse.”
“Oh goodness, how unfortunate.” He opened the door in front of us and we stepped into another elaborate corridor.
“You may have come across him,” I continued, “because he also worked for the Indian government. He was an opium agent in Ghazipur.”
“Was he indeed? There are many chaps employed up there, you know. It’s the largest opium factory in the world.”
“You haven’t heard any mention of him? Or of his murder?”
“Not until you mentioned it just now.”
“I realise the topic of murder is rather a gloomy one, but I hope you don’t mind me asking whether you have any idea who might have wished to murder Mr and Mrs Forster?”
“None at all, Miss Green. Forster had no idea who had attacked his wife, but he believed the motive to be burglary. And as for who attacked him, I simply don’t know. I wasn’t aware of any grievance he had with anyone.”
“Do you think they were murdered for the same reason?”
“Who can say? But it has to be more than just a coincidence. Someone clearly wanted them both dead, but I can’t for the life of me think why.”
“Have the police interviewed you?”
“No, why should they?”
“Because you knew the couple. Perhaps you unwittingly know something about them which could help the police investigation.”
Mr Mawson laughed. “I think you’re overestimating me, Miss Green. I merely socialised with them. I had no knowledge of their intimate affairs.”
“I’m wondering whether there’s a connection between their deaths and Mr Holland’s.”
“Why should there be?”
“Both men worked in India and were involved in the opium trade.”
“I wish you every success in finding a connection, Miss Green, but I cannot think of one.”
“I wonder where I might find someone who worked with Mr Holland. Would you be able to find out for me, Mr Mawson?”
“Such as who?”
“Someone who worked with him in Ghazipur, perhaps. Preferably someone who is back on home soil now.”
Mr Mawson grimaced. “I could try, but I don’t know how successful I’d be. A lot of chaps have worked there, I suppose, but the chances of finding someone who knew this Holland chap seem rather slim.”
Chapter 15
As arranged, I met Inspector Reeves by the Chinese laundry in Commercial Road. Tom Clifford was already there when I arrived.
“Oh, you turned up, Miss Green,” he said disappointedly as he chewed on his tobacco.
“Of course I did. I wouldn’t let The Holborn Gazette be the only newspaper to carry a story about an opium den.”
&n
bsp; The inspector removed the pipe from his mouth and held out his hand for payment. Once we had each handed over three shillings we were on our way.
The sun was setting as we left the busy thoroughfare of Commercial Road, turning into a side street which led us beneath the railway.
“You’ll need a strong stomach for where we’re going,” said Inspector Reeves. “Have you reported on many murder cases before?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Which ones?”
“Lizzie Dixie, the St Giles’ murders, Sophia Glenville, Richard Geller —”
“I’ve done that lot an’ all,” interrupted Tom Clifford. “And I’ve done more ’an that. The man who’s been found in the canal and that other one where he got pushed under a train.”
“The same man?” I asked with a smile.
“No, they was different murders. You can’t get pushed into a canal and under a train.”
“Not unless you’re extremely unlucky,” said Inspector Reeves.
“Miss Green’s very friendly with an inspector down the Yard,” continued Tom Clifford.
“Which one?”
“Inspector Blakely. Turns out ’er and the inspector’s quite the double act when it comes to murders.”
“Is that so?” asked Reeves.
“Not really,” I replied curtly.
“The rest of us reporters don’t get no chance when it comes to the Yard. Miss Green’s the favourite.”
We found ourselves in a narrow street of cramped dwellings with several people watching us from dark doorways.
“Evenin’, Inspector,” called a man from outside a ship chandler’s store.
“Evening, Juggins,” replied Inspector Reeves.
The man stared at me and I suddenly felt out of place.
Outside a noisy pub, a group of dark-skinned sailors sang in a language I didn’t recognise. A woman in a brightly coloured dress and headscarf quickly ducked out of sight.
“Mr Holland was an opium agent in India. Is it possible that his habitual use of the drug began there?” I asked Inspector Reeves.
“It’s a possibility. After all, he was surrounded by the stuff in Ghazipur, wasn’t he? But not all men come back from there addicted to opium. Perhaps he had a weaker character than most.”